The Dinner
by RawrrrGrimm
Summary: "Imagine a pregnant duck and you'll understand what I look like trying to walk in heels." AU. Slight OOC Renji/Rukia. Rated M for language. Short drabble piece.


**_Author's Note: Alternate Universe. Definitely just taking their characters and re-applying it to a short story I'd written awhile ago. A practice in characterization, one might say. Renji/Rukia Pairing. Rated high for language. _**

**_Disclaimer: I neither own nor profit from Bleach. I merely watch in rapt admiration. _**

**_The Dinner_**

I sit huffily, head tilted forward and eyes staring blankly at a restaurant menu decorated more extravagantly than even I am this unpleasantly familiar evening. Renji is late again, which he always is. Granted, there were a small number of times where his watch didn't seem to have been an hour behind, or he didn't have to stop and help an elderly citizen load their groceries into their cars—these are merely the most recent of his painfully cliché excuses—but those times seemed to always involve me darting around at home beforehand, half-naked and struggling to find a pair of heels to go with my dress; probably more my fault than his, however. I am after all the type of person to put off dressing myself until the very last minute.

I despise all articles of clothing reserved for the most feminine of women. I always feel straight-jacketed in, with bodice too tight and skirt too short, heels pinching my toes as I try to awkwardly stand tall and walk forward without landing on my tailbone. Imagine a pregnant duck and you'll understand what I look like trying to walk in heels. Long story short, I'm not much more punctual than him. So I let it slide.

I wait patiently just as before. I don't put much thought into whether he will show up or not; we live together, so there's no way he can stand me up for a date. Besides, these weekly outings are his idea, not mine. I'm actually a part of modern society's group of women whose personalities would make Piaget question his entire classification on personality development among genders. Most women would love to be wined and dined once a week, to have their man force Manolo Blahnik heels and Clinique on them. I however, am not one of those women. I'd much rather laze about all day in a pair of his oversized sweats, parked in front of the television like it's a life-source.

Eventually I hear the familiar sound of his voice in an unfamiliar, monotonous tone, words a bit scratchy from this distance but clear enough to tell that he's asking for our table. He sounds dead on his feet and from where I'm sitting, he looks like he has one foot in the grave already. When did he become so pale? It must be the work catching up with him; carrying around the burden of four jobs and sleeping maybe five hours a night at most seems to be taking its toll. I work two jobs myself while I finish my Bachelors degree in English, something that I've been putting off for far too long. But no matter what situation we're in, we can't be in that much debt…can we?

The chair across from me jerks back from the lip of the wooden surface, scratching against the tile floor with a strangled grunt. There he is, sitting across from me and I can finally see it clearly; the exhaustion. It's there in his eyes, his posture, even his hair somehow looks tired. He's an ungodly mess and it took me how long to see it? This obviously didn't happen over night. Renji didn't just wake up this morning with those dark circles and deep lines creasing under his eyes. This has developed over months of time. How did I not notice?

That trademark grin stretches across his face, feral and menacing in a strangely sexy way. It's all pointy canines and tenacity leaking through. When he smiles like that it's hard to tell he's so exhausted. Hell, it's hard to remember to breathe properly when he smiles at me like that. Despite my sudden brain hemorrhage at the sight of that smirk, I lean back and look at him fully, examining his face for more signs of exhaustion. Now that I make it a point to look, it's all over him; every part of his person looks beat down to the point of destruction. We can't ignore this much longer.

"Renji, how broke are we?"

I've never been good at holding my tongue. I'm just not lady-like enough to simper and act cordial when I'm worried or upset. The question settles between us, the air getting heavier as he shifts in his seat, eyes closing slowly as his left hand moves up to the bridge of his nose, thumb and forefinger pinching tightly. Oh, wow. So we're _very_ broke.

He plasters on another smile, this one fake and I can tell. There's no heart in it, no warmth, only a small hint of desperation that somehow reminds me of a child apologizing for breaking his mother's fine china. It's hard to believe he thinks he's fooling anyone, yet still he tries. Renji leans forward to rest an elbow on the table, chin propped in his upturned hand as he replies sarcastically, "What, no hello? Just a question about the finances?" He knows that won't work and surprisingly gives in quickly, continuing with a sigh. "Well, Rukia… I'll get to the nasty stuff then, if you really want to go there. It's not looking good, we can't make rent or buy groceries next month and at this rate, we'll have to cancel everything from cable to insurance." What I hear is: _We can't afford this dinner._

Then what the hell are we doing here? Why did I spend precious time scurrying about looking for whatever way possible to make myself presentable? Why do I even own this expensive dress and ridiculous heels if we can't even afford the dinner I'm wearing them to? _Is he kidding me with this shit?_

I rise to my feet swiftly, shoving the chair beneath me backwards with the backs of my knees, grabbing my bag before I stomp off toward the exit. Upon glancing over my shoulder, Renji is of course right on my tail, arm extended as he tries to seize my wrist and lead me back to the table. But I know better than to let that happen. If he catches me, I'll sit back down and order the most expensive thing on the menu. I'll blow forty dollars on a hunk of meat that I could make myself with minimal effort and a lot less cash.

Instead I slip past his fingertips, letting him chase me outside and grab me there. Once I've been caught and I can see he's about to say something, I round on him at the last second and screech like a psychopath, "We're so broke we can't afford dinner and you're _still_ making me get gussied up in heels and a cocktail dress on my only night off? _Are you out of your godforsaken mind?_"

He stares at me for a moment in confusion before he puts that devastating grin back in place, leaning forward to look me in the eye as he asks skeptically, "Which are you more mad about, the lack of funds for the dinner or the fact that you had to put on make-up and heels?"

I answer shortly, no thought necessary, "Heels, definitely. Now get your ass back home and cancel the cable." As I turn to stomp towards my car, teetering dangerously in my too-tall stilettos I hear that deep baritone chuckle of his and smile to myself. We may be broke as hell, but at least I don't have to put on a dress and drag myself out to dinner once a week anymore.


End file.
